Bad Intentions
by Blood Red Youth
Summary: Behind-the-scenes of his first five attempts to acquire the Baudelaire fortune, Olaf realizes that a former ally is trying to beat him at his own game. T for language.


Not sure what inspired me to write this - hope you enjoy anyway if you are reading! Part 2 coming soon.

* * *

1.

Having destroyed an entire set of plates and most of his dining room in what must be record-breaking time, Esme wrenches open the front door and skitters across to her car, screeching at a pitch that surely will have deafened the entire neighborhood that he'll _fucking regret this_ , among other nonsense threats. Utterly unperturbed, he cheerfully waves her off and remembers to throw her ridiculous half-snakeskin coat into the road as she drives away, just so she knows there's no reason to come back.

Half-amused and only slightly irritated, Olaf settles down for a large glass of wine and a well-deserved cigarette before resuming work on the judge's script for his latest masterpiece, a work of both artistic and criminal genius that will probably be his legacy. She'll be back within the week.

* * *

2.

Just a touch embarrassed about the play and the subsequent series of cock-ups that have led him to the edge of Lake Lachrymose wearing an eye patch and a fake peg leg, he ends up calling first. Partly it's because he doesn't know what to do next, partly it's because he's freezing almost to death and feeling a bit sorry for himself, and it might be very _slightly_ because he's a bit surprised he's still getting the silent treatment. It's probably fine anyway, he convinces himself while dialing, because she's probably already tried without knowing that he isn't around to answer his home line. Either way, what does it matter? They aren't twelve years old.

Satisfied with his reasoning, he takes the leap. He tries her at work first, but her receptionist tells him she's not around and, after a brief argument, refuses to pass on a message. He tries calling the number for her apartment and it rings out.

She's not at work, and not at home. That's fine. He doesn't care where she is anyway. He dials her cell phone next.

"It's impressive that you memorized all those numbers without even meaning to, boss," his bald associate chips in innocently, halfway through examining himself vainly in a cracked mirror.

"I've got a fantastic memory, you sack of shit," Olaf hisses. "Haven't you got something else to be doing?"

The ringing tapers off into a voicemail message. Resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room, Olaf growls _call me_ after the tone and slams the receiver down.

* * *

3.

Deeply irritated that he's spent several days in very uncomfortable fishnet tights for an end result of one dead optometrist and _absolutely no fortune_ , he tries her again. Her receptionist takes a message down this time that he's ninety-six percent sure she doesn't intend to pass on. Her cell phone goes through to voicemail, and this time her apartment number doesn't even ring. _Out of service_ , the automated voice tells him over and over, until he hangs up. He calls again, just in case he's got one of the numbers wrong, but the automated voice is waiting for him again.

Now he's just irritated. He waits an excruciating ten minutes and calls her cell phone again, in case she missed it the first time. He intends to leave a short message, but actually leaves a vaguely long and vicious one letting her know how completely pathetic she's being. _Just call me_ , he finishes gruffly, not totally convinced that he's gotten away without sounding pathetic himself.

* * *

4.

He finds out she's married now from an article in _The Daily Punctilio_ one morning, while recovering from a significant hangover. There it is, a photograph next to the penultimate paragraph of the two page spread, captioned _Mr and Mrs Squalor at the Kornbluth annual charity auction._

She's smirking in the photograph, as if she thinks she's done something incredibly clever, and God, he has to get himself a glass of water and an aspirin. He knew she was pissed, but he had no idea she was pissed enough to enter into a _revenge marriage._ Then, when he sits and thinks about it for a little while, he realizes that maybe that's exactly the kind of stunt he should have been expecting, from _her._

He squints at the photograph for a while, but he doesn't recognize the face or the name. Mr Squalor looks like a stupid oaf, albeit a friendly one. He's impeccably dressed, though he can't be sure whether that suit was of his own choosing or whether Esme has already commandeered the job of his personal stylist.

It isn't that he _cares,_ or anything so foolish. He knows her too well to believe she's really done anything as ridiculous as fall in _love_ , and he'd unquestionably rather be six feet under than married to her himself _._ But something still doesn't smell right.

He does a little bit of digging. Mr Squalor is a very rich man, it turns out, but there doesn't seem to be anything else about him to uncover. He's the product of nothing more sinister than some well-placed investment decisions, apparently enjoys golf, his mother is still alive and living on the coast. He's old-money in the big city, the perfect catch for somebody like her. But it's so _predictable_.

He returns to scheming when he grows bored of trying to dig up dirt on Jerome Squalor. He's certain it's going to be _fine_ this time, even if there are a few kinks in the plan – he's not sure, for instance, that blackmailing the Quagmire sapphires out of Esme is going to be _quite_ as simple as extracting money from that banker with the cough – but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. She'll probably have called by then.

He sits down with his troupe to inform them about his latest bid to become one of the richest men in the city, promising them an unspecified return of some sort each when he's successful, which will be, of course, by the end of the following week. They discuss disguises and settle for the turban – decidedly more comfortable than the fishnets.

Fernald is making a face when he also tells them that Esme has run off to play trophy wife to some high society slime-ball and that they won't be seeing her again. It's so bizarre, like a cross between panic and guilt, that he can't not call him on it.

"I didn't think it was important, boss," he stammers, scratching the back of his neck with the tip of one hook. "But I've taken a job as a doorman on weekdays. You know, to earn a little extra money. They had an advertisement that specifically stated that the job would be suitable for a double amputee, and you rarely see any of those."

Olaf is about to snap that the life of Fernald Widdershins really is of no consequence to him, but his hooked associate goes on in a rush.

"It turns out it's the same building Esme's living in now," he says. "And she asked me to do her a favor, and it seemed pretty harmless – and I assumed you kind of knew about all this anyway – so I've been opening anything that comes for Mr Squalor with a handwritten label before I send his mail up in the mornings. Turns out – and I don't even know if it's important, boss, but I thought I'd better mention it – he's an old friend of one of those Snicket siblings that you hate. And he's in touch with Poe, you know, with the cough."

He _knew_ something didn't smell right. "Which Snicket?"

"Jacques, boss. I have to admit, none of the letters mean anything to me –"

Olaf makes an impatient noise as Fernald hovers over his coat pocket and motions for him to get on with it. He digs around in his pocket and spears a few of them, holding them out nervously for inspection.

 _Jerome,_

 _I can't help but feel as though you haven't been reading my letters. Either that, or you are very angry and no longer wish to speak to me, or perhaps you are in so much shock from the revelations in my previous letter that you have not been able to bring yourself to reply._

 _Just in case you have not received any of my other letters, I feel I should repeat what I said in the last five here (though it will be necessary for this one to be rather more brief, as it is very difficult to write for any length of time atop a Mountain in a rather precarious position). I was delighted when I received an invitation to your wedding, as I was so pleased that you had found someone with whom you wish to spend the rest of your life. I was, however, horrified when I found out the identity of that person._

 _As the date on the invitation has now passed and I have had no response – and no matter how hard I tried, I could not have made it to the Vineyard that day – I am left with no other choice but to assume that you have indeed proceeded with the ceremony._

 _It isn't too late to back out, Jerome. I have known you for many years, and I do trust you. That is why I begged you to buy the penthouse. I knew that it would be safe with you._

 _You trusted me once too, because you agreed, even though I was unable to give you a reason at the time (please see the previous letter for somewhat of an explanation). I have an even bigger favour to ask of you now and that is to please, please, please reconsider your decision. I believe that people are in danger. I have reason to believe that you are in danger._

 _I wish you all the happiness in the world, Jerome, and I do hope you know that. If you're reading this, no matter how angry you are, please try and let me know you're alright._

 _Your friend,_

 _Jacques_

When he's finished the letter, one question springs to the forefront of his mind.

"Where," he begins slowly, staring intently at the hook handed man. "Is this building?"

"It's Dark Avenue, boss. 667, the big fancy apartment building."

Intriguing, but meaningless. The passageway doesn't lead anywhere anymore, except to a load of blackened ground. Taking the penthouse is another safe place as good as burned for the volunteers, but it would have definitely been easier to _actually_ burn it than to occupy it.

He looks to one of the other letters – lots of them are from Jacques, probably all saying the same sorts of things – and finds one that catches his interest.

 _Mr Squalor,_

 _I apologize for cutting short our conversation this afternoon. I agree entirely that the boarding school is a means to an end – unless the children make a real success of it there, of course, but I'm holding out little hope for that. We should meet over the coming days to figure out something more permanent. I propose breakfast – my sister Eleanora has informed me that you are fond of the Veritable French Diner, though I neglected to ask how she had come across that information! Thursday at 8?_

 _P.S. Warmest congratulations on your marriage. Eleanora is already acquainted with the new Mrs Squalor and had only pleasant things to say._

 _Arthur_

Before he even reads the name at the foot of the page, it's all startlingly clear, and Olaf begins to laugh, _really_ laugh. Fernald looks as though he isn't sure whether he should be expecting a pat on the back or a beating.

The thing is, it's funny. He doesn't know how she's figured any of this out, or how she even knew who Jerome Squalor was, but somehow she's weaseled it all out of somebody and now she's decided to really go and marry someone just in order to have a way to get custody of the orphans. He doubts she even has a plan after that – she probably hasn't thought that far ahead.

"Boss?" Fernald asks edgily, unsure what's happening. He ought to be angry, he knows that. He should be angry that Fernald ever took the job without consulting him, let alone starting doing _her_ bidding without his knowledge or approval, and most of all he should be violently furious that she's trying to muscle in on _his_ plan that he's been working on for years. Above all, he supposes he should be worried – there's no disguise in the world he could use that would fool her. But if she wants to play, he knows how to play.

"You're the doorman, you said?"

"Yes, boss."

He smiles, slowly, like the cat that got the cream. "So it's up to you, then, who comes in and out of the building?"

Fernald nods slowly, a small smile beginning to spread across his lips.

"Good," the Count replies. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."


End file.
